


Crossing Lines

by poisontaster



Series: Winsister [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Mutual Non-Con, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-14
Updated: 2008-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:30:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2190045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster





	Crossing Lines

"Addie, no. We don't have to do this."

God, he's hard. He's so _hard_. It aches in a way that isn't really pleasurable but he can't escape the want—the need—to bury himself in soft, yielding flesh.

But he doesn't want that flesh to be his sister's.

Addie isn't much better. Sweat darkens her hair, glitters on her skin, makes crescent moons of damp on her tank beneath her breasts…

Sam jerks his eyes away from his sister's breasts, swallowing air that feels oxygenless and overheated. His hands curve without his conscious volition, as if shaping themselves to those… Another deep breath that does _nothing_ to clear his head. …sweetly curving, hard-nippled…

"Fuck!" he screams, arm lashing out to sweep the lamp from the bedside table. The body's metal, too sturdy to be damaged by the fall but the gimcrack plastic of the shade cracks and tears, spilling brighter, harsher light into his eyes. He halfway wishes they could blind him for real, except then he wouldn't be able to see Addie circling around him like a wolf searching for weakness. He crashes back against the corner, holding his head in his hands as he slides down the wall, trapped between wall, bed and sister.

Addie flinched when he hit the lamp, but once he's down, she comes closer, pushing the fucked up lamp aside to kneel at his feet. Not touching but close enough to be touched, if he lunged for her. If he dared to put his hands on her poison-tainted skin.

Not that he's any better. Same poison's on him— _in_ him—making him burn fast and dirty, the longing pounding through him like a fist hammering on the fingers wrapped around a life line. He wants. He _wants_. And he knows it doesn't have to be Addie—Addie's skin, Addie's cunt wrapped around him like a different kind of fist, Addie's small, sweet breasts, nipples like raspberries in his mouth. He doesn't _want_ it to be Addie, but he knows that before too long, it won't matter to him if it's her—his sister—or someone else.

"Addie—" He lifts his head from his hands, eyes streaming, burning. "Please. We don't have to do this. It won't kill us. We won't die. We just have to…hold out. We can hold out."

Addie's hands rub restlessly up and down her thighs. Sam can't figure out if it's nervousness or just the same need for sensation that clutches at him, tearing at his mind, his focus, his willpower. He watches her small, scarred killer's hands stroke her long, hard-muscled thighs and he feels his willpower seeping out of him, washing away like sandcastles at the lick of the tide.

"Sam."

Just the sound of her voice makes him shudder. The poison's sinking deeper, burning hotter through his veins. It's easy to talk about holding out, about resisting the siren call of _rut, fuck, take_ , but it's much harder to hang onto it, to _believe_ it, when he can _smell_ Addie. Smell her, oceanic and slick, filling up his nostrils with her.

"Sam," Addie says again. Her hand makes a gesture as if to lift his chin without actually making contact. He drags his eyes up to hers. "I love you, Sam."

"Don't." He chokes the word out like a burr from his throat, hurting and scratching as it goes. "Please, Addie. If…if you love me, don't do this. Make Dean unlock the door. Let me go."

Addie shakes her head. "I don't want you to go. I don't…" Her head tilts, her face suddenly both very old and very young. "You're always leaving, Sam."

"No." His tongue is so thick and he wants to use it for things other than speaking, wants to shove his face between Addie's strong thighs and lick her until she screams and tears his hair out at the roots. "Addie. That's not true."

"It is true," she insists. Her hand brushes her neck, wanders down her shoulder to skim her breast and then down to her ribs. The movement's absent; like she doesn't even know she's doing it. "It's true and… I don't want you to go, Sam. And I don't know how to fix it." Her tongue swipes across her dry, pink bottom lip and Sam watches it with the same intensity he used to study with. "Me and Dean…I can't take that back. I'm tired of feeling bad about that. I don't want to feel bad." Her eyelids slip halfway down, the wet curve of her lip slacking loose.

"And I don't wanna take it back," she says after an endless time of waiting, watching her, wanting her. "I love Dean. Love him…God. _So much_." Her eyes fall down to her hands. She's rocking on her knees, a restless side to side shift of her hips and Sam can't help but think of how well his thumbs would fit, there in the hollow, holding her, dragging her down onto his cock again and again. Doesn't stop the twist in his stomach, though, the sickness that he can't tell anymore if it's disgust or want.

"But I love you, too."

Sam's face twists. From the inside, it feels…animal. From the outside…he doesn't know. "I'm not your pity fuck," he snarls. His heart beats at him: _Mine. Mine._ Dean throws it in his face and Sam pretends it isn't true, but he's bared now, split to the ugly truth and he knows. Addie was always his first. Always. "I'm not your fuck at all." His knees ache and he shifts, hissing as denim and wadded cotton shift with him, friction on his aching cock. He could die of this; he believes it, though his brain insists it's not true. "You're not a token to be traded between us."

Addie has her hands folded taut between her thighs. It looks penitent until you notice the way she's still rocking, pushing her cunt against her hands. If she aches anything like he does—and she does, he can tell it, sense it—then it's not enough. Not nearly enough. And hours to go before the poison will leave their systems.

"You always talk about me like I don't know…" A shuddering gasp interrupts her, quasi-orgasmic. Addie's back arches, thrusting her breasts up and toward him. The cloth that covers them is thin, nearly see-through now with the sweat that rolls from her skin.

Sam reaches for her before he's aware of his body moving. A moment later, he snatches his hands back, fisting them, wedging his shoulders deeper into the corner in the vain hope he can crawl inside and escape this.

Addie's head comes back to center and she opens her eyes slowly, catlike and languid. "I choose, Sam." Her voice is rough, not quite wrecked, like after a night of drinking. "As much as you and Dean, I choose."

"Addie…" Her voice comes out of him like a prepubescent whine. The part of him that wants to keep this conversation going, to have it all out between them— _finally_ —is a distinct minority and Sam knows he's in no condition to argue with her, in no condition to even make sense.

"I'm not going to rape you, Sam." The anger heats her voice, smoothing the roughness to smoke. She's still rubbing herself through her jeans, more obvious now, more deliberate as the _need_ piles higher. The liquid, easy flex of her spine, the sharp push of her pelvis dries his mouth and then makes it water. "You said it—we don't have to do this."

Addie being the reasonable one, Addie failing to _push the fucking issue_ is almost worse than the poison boiling in his blood. He's embarrassed to realize how much he was counting on it, expecting Addie to ride over his objections the way she kicks over everything in her path, scattering it all like toys. "Addie," he gasps, half doubled over. He doesn't know what he wants her name to mean, whether it's protest or plea.

"I won't rape you," she says again, shoulders hunched tightly inward as if she can hold her desire in by willpower alone. Maybe she can; Addie's always been the most stubborn of them all—and that's saying something. Sam doesn't believe he's nearly that strong. Earlier maybe, sooner, when the venom had less a clawed hold on him. But not now.

"Tell Dean to let me go."

Addie's jaw flexes and her breasts heave. "Tell him yourself."

"Addie—"

"No. I said I wouldn't rape you, Sam. I didn't say I'll make it easy for you to walk out on me again."

"That's not what this is!"

"That's what it _always is_!" Addie hisses. Then she lets out a small, desperate noise, scrambling away from him. She disappears into the bathroom before Sam can do more than catch a glimpse of the violin curve of her naked back where her tank rides up from her pants, the soft surge of her breast in profile, where the arms dip low.

The sound of water crashing into the sink seems loud. Barely conscious of himself, Sam gets up and follows Addie into the bathroom. She's shimmied out of her jeans as well, a wad only a half-step from the doorway. Her boyshorts are white cotton, striped in lavender and sage, and it horrifies Sam to remember that Jess had the exact same pair.

But Addie isn't Jess and Jess isn't Addie. Wasn’t that always the point? Sam can't remember any more, mesmerized by the hard-pale curves of his sister's mostly naked body, acres and miles of soft skin that he hungers to touch as much as he hungers for the air he breathes. As he watches, Addie splashes more water in messy-cold gouts across her face, her barely swathed breasts, the muscled curve of her belly. In the mirror, he sees that even the front of her panties are wet, a surprising profusion of dark red hair visible through the sheerness of the cotton.

When she sees him, Addie's hands fall to grip the sink's edges, white-knuckled and tense. Through the vee of her arm and torso, he can see the swells of her breasts; in the mirror, he can see more—the way the pale skin is flushed, even through the beading of cold water, the aching tautness of her pink, peaked nipples, cotton molded to every knotted furl. "We don't have to do this," she reminds him through gritted teeth, eyes red and tired as their gazes meet in the silver middle ground of the mirror.

"We can just hold out," Sam agrees, lying through his teeth as he fits himself in place behind her, fingers skimming up the solidity of her ribs to finally— _finally_ —heft and enclose her in his palms the way he's been wanting to, all this time.

Addie closes her eyes with a long, bitten off moan, tight, round ass pushing eagerly and wantonly into his cock, head falling back to his chest. "We can just hold out," she agrees, no less a liar herself. Her right hand covers his, closing his fingers more tightly around her breast.

For a minute—long minutes—it's enough; the feel of Addie's body against his, the rock of her hips and ass against his cock, the plush give of her breasts in his hand. It's wrong. It's so freaking _wrong_ but Sam feels it quiet the raging inside him. Just a little bit. Just enough that he can breathe. He doesn't even realize he's closed his eyes until Addie's quiet, "Sam."

Her voice shudders through him and his hands close convulsively tighter, making Addie gasp and push her hips back. He opens his eyes, unwilling, to see the two of them in the mirror: big brother, little sister. But not quite that, either. Not now. Impossible not to see Addie as a woman, hard and rounded at the same time, wet and eager for him. Another shudder, less pleasurable, more desperate.

 _"Sam,"_ she says again, looking at him in the mirror from under half-lidded eyes. She's shaking but her voice is entirely steady when she says, "If you're going to leave, it needs to be now."

Sam thinks there's a plea in her face, in her voice, but he doesn't know what it's a plea for. More and more he understands that he's never known Addie. Not as a person in her own right. He only knows himself.

"I don't wanna go." It hurts to say it and he can't look at her face when he rips the words from his heart, focusing instead on the nape of her oddly delicate neck, the razor straight line of her hair. His hands slip from her breasts to wrap around her waist instead, wanting closeness over gratification despite the poison searing through his veins. "Addie." He puts his face in the downy bristle on the crown of her head. "I don't want to leave."

Addie makes a noise, less sexual than wounded, and her arm comes up to curve around the back of his head.

The push-pull of family politics can only stave off the hunger for so long, though. And once Sam has surrendered this little bit of ground, it's too easy to surrender the rest, venom whispering dark and dirty in his ears, telling him _yours…take, rut, fuck_.

Sam's fingers creep further down, slinking traitors, hooking into the band of Addie's panties, dragging them down long, white legs. Addie gasps, bending at the waist and her hands slap out flat across the mirror's face. Her thighs are shaking as Sam tugs her underwear down and the smell of her is stronger, almost like a drug by itself. She's so wet that she's trickling down the insides of her thighs. Sam pauses there, on his knees with his fingers braceleted around her ankles, and leans in to lap at it, all pointed licking roughness, like a cat.

"Nngh!" Addie shivers hard, head to toe, and almost breaks his nose with the force of her jerk. Sam lets go of her ankles to skim up taut calves and smooth thighs until his thumbs reach the join of her to hold her still and spread her open. "S-sam…" Addie's voice wavers wildly, barely recognizable as his name.

_It's wrong. It's so wrong._

_Everything about this family is wrong._

"Shh." Sam lets his breath hiss out across her cunt. She's flushed pink, so pink, slick and glazed, and he can feel the heat of her against his oversensitized skin. He wants in that heat, tongue and fingers and cock, as bad—worse—than he's ever wanted any woman and it feels like the poison has so little to do with that.

She pulses, deep inside, when he slips his middle finger into her. Trying to clutch, and Sam knows how she must be aching for more. He tilts his head to look at her, head down between her outstretched arms, eyes closed and mouth open, breathing hard and making small, quiet noises as she twitches. She burns. Even the thick streams of her want can't hide the searing heat, nearly molten, as he strokes her, slow thrust, fingertip rubbing. He follows it with his mouth, pushing his tongue into her, tasting her, feeling her shake against his lips.

 _Addie,_ he breathes into her. _Sister, little sister._

"Sam—" Addie twists in place, trying to shift across his forefinger, so near her clit. His name sounds like a sob, her voice thick and strange. "Oh, God. _Fuck. Sam._ "

Sam feels like he could die, just explode from his skin and die, but he also thinks it might be worth it for the long, drawn out moans Addie makes when he gives her what she wants and rubs her clit hard and full before gentling to circles, finger and tongue still working steadily inside her, her juices running down his chin.

"Sam," Addie says again, urgent and jagged. Her nails scream down the glass and then she reaches back, fingers slipping through Sam's hair without finding a hold. " _Sam_ , please. It's not…it's not enough." She groans and shimmies, sinuous as a snake, flooding his mouth with even more of her. "Please, Sammy, please." Her voice breaks. "I need it."

Oh, God, they both do.

Sam's eyes squeeze shut, wetness pushing from under tight, trembling lids. He licks his way up her, the salt tang of her cunt giving way to shocking bitters and another spit out curse of his name. He gets as far as the salted hollows on either side of her spine—pushing her shirt ahead of his mouth—before she jerks up, tugging the skin-worn cotton back down. "No. Leave it on."

There's a question in Sam's mind, but it's less to him than the need to get in her, to feel the heat of her cunt tighten around him and so he merely follows the knobs of her backbone with his mouth through the tank, fingers walking up her sides to find and hold—squeeze—her small, giving breasts with strong fingers. His cock slides across her, flirting, but at the wrong angle.

"Addie." The naked, shaking need of his own voice scares him; it hardly sounds like his own voice. He thinks there's a refuge in that, a comfortable lie, if only he can find it. "Tell me to stop and I'll stop."

It's a lie. He knows it's a lie. He's not going to stop. He can't, so far past anything resembling rational. But he needs the lie as much as he needs the sex; needs to believe that he's not capable of forcing a woman.

But the truth is, he doesn't let her get out more than "Yuh—" (which could've meant anything) before he reaches between them to guide—ram—himself in.

The heat of her on his fingers, his tongue, is nothing to the sear of her on his dick. With all the slick to guide his way, he thought he'd float into her like a cloud, but she's tight, sullen, giving only grudgingly.

 _Just like Addie, through and through,_ he thinks and somewhere buried in that is the fading perception that this _is_ Addie, his sister, his fierce, tough baby sister…and that here and now, it doesn't mean anything.

There's nothing after that but the fucking, hard ruts into a tight hole, Addie shoving back on each one and dull, animal noises spilling from both their lips. Addie comes easily, once, twice…three times. Sam hates her for it, as hard now, as unsatisfied as when the rhaghana spit on them, thinking—somehow—that this would be a gift.

A _gift._

Finally, Sam wraps his fingers around Addie's wrists, jerking her down to the floor. He expects her to fight; they always fight about everything. But she's still in heat as much as he is, wrapping her legs around him hard enough to hurt and tilting her hips to take him into her again. From this angle, she feels new all over again, no less hot, no less tight for rough usage. Sam's orgasm comes quick but bitterly, wringing out of him without pleasure.

And that's just the start.

Sam doesn't remember how it ends. If it's a mercy, it's a small one, overshadowed by pain and exhausted, nearly blotted out by the inescapable knowledge of what he's done.

When enough of the venom has sweated and spunked out of him so that he can breathe and think and be _Sam_ again, he's still inside her, inside _Addie_. It's slow now, almost languid, the soft laziness of an early morning fuck. Sam aches. Every part of him aches and none of it worse than the cold, leaden lump in his chest.

Addie knows, the moment he comes back to himself. She can probably read it in his face the way he sees it in hers. She plants her hands and feet on the mattress, pulling away from him at the same time he pulls out of her. Addie quickly hides her wince, when Sam slips out, but he sees it anyway.

Sam opens his mouth to say the words, _Addie, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_ , but she gets there first, her voice as cool as if they haven't spent God knows how long fucking each other senseless: "If you tell me you're sorry, Sam Winchester, I'll kick you in the goddamn balls."

It shouldn't, but it startles him into laughing. After a moment's outraged glaring, Addie's shoulders slump and she laughs too, soft, rueful, unwilling. It makes the gnawing in Sam's chest deepen even more, because he can't remember the last time they did that—just laugh together.

Sam doesn't even try to stop, letting it come up in increasingly hysterical bubbles and hiccups, deepening the pain in his chest, his sore, overused abs. It _hurts_. God, it all hurts so fucking _much._ Sam doubles over on himself, not sure anymore whether he's laughing or crying…or screaming.

"Are you going to leave?"

Sam straightens, wiping wetness from his eyes that he's not brave enough to name tears. Both Addie's hands are tangled through the headboard like she needs it to hold on. Sam understands that feeling.

"Addie, this should've never happened."

"But _will you leave_?" she persists. Anyone else would have covered themselves—with their hands, with the sheet—but not Addie and he knows her well enough to understand her thinking. He's already seen everything of her there is to see. Whatever's left can't be covered by mere cloth and she'd think it a lie and a cheat to behave otherwise. Because that's Addie, without compromise.

It's Sam, too, the reason they keep banging off each other, breaking off pieces as they go. They can't keep on like this indefinitely. Sam knows it; Addie knows it. And his choices only number two: to go and leave her, leave Dean—leave his _family_ —or stay. Stay and find a way that won't kill them all.

"Addie—"

"You could've left, Sam!" The bed frame creaks as her fingers tighten around the headboard slats. "You could've walked out that fucking door, any time you wanted!"

"How? How was I supposed to do that, with the door locked and Dean standing guard?"

Addie rolls off the bed, compact and vicious and goes to the door. It swings open at a touch and there's nothing but the parking lot beyond. The Impala's gone from it's spot in front of the door. "You could've left at any time, Sam." Addie's voice shakes, her face like something carved. "You didn't even try. You didn't even _try_."

Sam stares out the open doorway. It feels like something is pouring out of him, the same terrifying liquidity of bleeding out though Sam doesn't have a word for whatever's draining out of him, leaving only cold in its wake.

He hadn't tried. And now, thinking back through the urgent haziness of those hours, Sam can't even remember who'd said the door was locked. Whether anyone had, or whether it was just something he'd decided, creating the 'knowledge' from whole cloth.

A squeak from the doorway jerks Sam's attention off its frantic circle. Two people, middle aged and touristy, are walking past and the sight of Addie's naked body is probably more than they were expecting to see.

Sam surprises himself with the speed at which he crosses the room, jerking Addie away from the door and kicking it closed behind them. He expects Addie to rip away from him, to rip into him—literally and figuratively—but instead, she only looks up at him, a troubled line scratched between her heavy eyebrows.

"What do you want, Sam?"

The question doesn't sound like a trap, doesn't sound like anything more than an honest inquiry and that's how Sam answers it, fighting the impulse to shrink away from her, put some distance between them, cover this all up. "I want my family back."

Addie's lips pucker briefly and she tips her head to one side. "Do you want us because you know you need us, to get the demon, or do you want us because you want _us_?"

Sam sighs. The desire for revenge, to destroy the thing that has destroyed his life from back to front, still burns in his chest like a sacred flame, eternal and carefully tended. But that isn't all. It's never been all. He reaches to put his hands on Addie's shoulders, hesitates over her naked skin, and then lets them fall anyway. It's like instinct for his thumbs to sweep the clean lines of her collar bones. "If it was just the demon… I could do that myself. I don't need you and Dean for that, Addie." It hurts, the way her eyes widen, clearly not expecting it. "I need you guys for…for everything else."

Neither one of them say it, but the question practically vibrates between them anyway: _And if this is what it means, to be a family again?_

Sam doesn't know.

"And now?" Now, now that he's finally listening for it, Sam hears the fear that Addie keeps so deeply buried under the anger that energizes her, so much deeper than he'd ever thought. So much deeper than he'd thought he was capable of causing. "Are you going to leave?"

Sam sighs. As much as he's come to realize that he doesn't know Addie—not like he thought he did—Addie doesn't know him either, sometimes. "No, Addie. I'm not leaving."

He wants to. He wants to very much, entirely different from the wants that drove him to California. He craves them—his family—desperately, fiercely…and helplessly. But he doesn't know if he wants all the rest of this—what he's becoming, what they are. He doesn't know if he wants to face the things they're making him see.

Because he chose. As much as Addie, as much as Dean, Sam chose. And it terrifies and sickens him that he did; giving life to the little, niggling doubt that maybe he wanted this all the time.

"Where's Dean?" he asks finally, a question he should've asked a long time ago.

Addie shrugs, lids sweeping down to hide her eyes. "He'll be back. He didn't want to be here for this."

No; of course not. Sam remembers the gas station blow-up. That had just been a case of Dean being paranoid and jumping to the wrong conclusions. This… This is very different.

"Is this going to fuck things up?"

Another shrug and the fast flicker of her eyes at him. "He knows this needed to happen."

Sam doesn't know how Addie means by that and he just doesn't want to figure it out. Not right now.

It makes his stomach roil a little to do it, but he trails his hands down Addie's bare arms to interlace his fingers with hers, tugging her forward at the same time he steps back. "He's gonna want to leave right away." Because that's Dean's way; to put miles of road between anything he can't kill. "We should get some rest."

"I'm tired," Addie agrees, curling under his arm the way she used to when they were little.

"Me too," Sam answers, heartfelt.


End file.
